


Building A Mystery

by kavalai



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Overdosing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 13:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17899151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kavalai/pseuds/kavalai
Summary: Noah's past could take up several Lifetime movies. Leah's past is no match for his but she carries her own battle scars. Can you ever really let the past go and move forward? Can two wounded warriors save each other? Is love enough to conquer so many demons?





	1. Chapter 1

His name was Noah, and although his name meant rest (and peace), his spirit embodied anything but either of those two things. He wasn't dark, although at first glance a person's instinct might have caused them to use that word to define him - brooding, was more like it. People often said you couldn't time him. Many had tried and failed miserably, simply because they became bored. The longest anyone had lasted was four hours. As the story she had often heard went, when they came back two hours after that, he was still sitting in the same position, with the same expression on his chiseled features. His glazed-over hazel eyes stared with what everyone assumed was vacancy into the fire. She knew better than all of them, although she'd never say so out loud. She knew he didn't see the fire at all; she wondered if his skin even felt warm, despite his hours of constant vigil before the flames. He saw things no one else could see, felt things no one else could experience, because they were all a part of him; pieces of his past that he couldn't allow himself to forget. Happiness was a luxury he never allowed himself to afford. The house, cars, clothes - material possessions meant very little to him; many of those things he'd had long before everything that mattered to him was gone. She watched him tenderly from the doorway for a moment longer, and then turned to go. 

"Where are you going," he asked her without looking up. 

She stopped, but only turned her head, "To get you a drink."

"Whiskey," he demanded flatly. His second bottle was empty.

"Water."

"Which is a diluted form of ice. Just add whiskey to it." 

She closed her eyes for a second, and then turned back. Her voice was low, "You know that's not a very good id.."

"I'll get it myself," he said gruffly, rising from his chair as if hours of immobility had no impact on his lithe frame.

She watched him leave the room with a mixed expression of apprehension and sadness. Hours later, his dreams seemed to torture him. He'd tremble, convulse, and even scream on occasion. Every night it was the same. She would wait-up as long as she could, but sleep would eventually take her. As many nights as this occurred, she never paused to look at the clock. She'd hear the noises start and rush for the door, but it was always locked. She'd knock until her hands turned red, but he couldn't answer. He was dreaming deliriously at this point. She'd fall asleep leaning against his door sometime around dawn when he'd finally given into the darkness that was the final stage of being drunk. She could never bring herself to go back to her room. As childish as it was, she didn't want to leave him alone. He'd wake some time mid-morning and carry her back to her bedroom, brushing loose strands of auburn hair back from her face and wondering groggily why she always ended up outside his room. She never told him she heard him at night because she knew he wouldn't want to speak of it, and he couldn't remember it anyway. For a long time he said nothing, because he was unsure of what to say. He knew she used to like her brandy, but he thought she'd given it up before she came here. After several weeks of this unspoken agreement, he finally asked her at dinner one night.

"Are you alright?"

She fought the urge to snort, which was difficult. 

"I'm fine." 

"Are you sure?" 

She put down her fork and watched him carefully, "Yes. Why?"

"Because," he paused, and she watched with a heavy heart as he took a drink of whiskey, "I find you sleeping outside my room every morning." 

"I'm surprised you remember bringing me back to my room."

"Every morning?"

"Yes."

"How could I forget that?"

"Aren't you ever hung over?"

"No."

"Of course not. You never stop drinking long enough to get that far." 

He waved a hand dismissively to end the discussion, 

"Leah, please."

It didn’t stop her. Now that the ball was finally rolling, she wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

"I ask myself every day how you can carry me back to my room after the amount of whiskey you consumed the night before, but I find no answer." 

"I'm stronger then I look."

"It's funny you should say that."

Drinking the last drop, he slammed his glass on the table and finally met her gaze - which had never left his form the entire time, 

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm the only one in this room who actually believes that!" 

Her usually pale complexion and calm countenance was an unfamiliar mixture of flushed cheeks and rapidly watering blue eyes. She stood up quickly, almost upsetting her chair. Even through his ever-present-hazy stupor he could register feeling. It wasn't easy, and he hardly did it for anyone. But she had always slipped through his cracks, as if she belonged there. 

"Leah, wait." He touched her wrist lightly with shaking fingers.

"You are stronger than the bottle that weighs you down, Noah." 

He ignored the words, although they hit him harder than he would have liked, choosing to focus on his need for an answer.

"Tell me why you are outside my room every morning."

She knew he couldn't know the truth. Not yet. At least, not all of it. So she told him the part she knew he could handle,

"I want you to know you aren’t alone, anymore. That you never will be again." 

She took his hand and cupped it in both of hers for a moment, neither saying a word. Slowly he retracted his hand and turned away, reaching shaking fingers for the bottle of whiskey. He wasn't trying to avoid her, it wasn't about that. He needed it to keep from dreaming. From thinking. From being. Existing like he would be without it, was unbearable. He'd be tormented with too many things she didn't know, things he couldn't begin to find a way to tell her. He heard her leave the room, but it didn't matter where she went in the house. She'd only been here a few months and somehow, she'd found a way into his heart like no one else. She'd done that long ago and it had never changed, despite everything else in his life doing the exact opposite. 

They'd been friends since they were on the brink of adulthood at eighteen. Their high schools had been sports rivals, and they never officially met until their first year at college when he accidentally spilled a drink on her at a mixer. He had been known in town as a local basketball star, but his career never got the chance to take off. Life had other plans for him that didn’t include the NBA. When he tore his ACL near the end of freshman year, any hopes he had of an NBA career were dashed. Her father, John Longfellow, was a great support to him during that time in his life. His own father had no time for mistakes and saw Noah as nothing but a screw-up. John would go with him to all of his therapy appointments, even joining him in extra gym sessions to help boost his strength and rebuild his muscle. John was a strong, honest man rooted in the old ways – ways that most people had lost faith in long ago. He was a hard man to win over but if you gained his respect, you had a friend for life like none other you could count on. Noah learned that the first year everything began to change, at nineteen - to this day he didn’t know what he would have done without Leah and her father during that time. His sister committed suicide shortly after his injury happened – and his little brother, Trey, followed suit a week after she passed. Without the support of Leah and John, he would’ve fallen apart completely.

John lost his battle with pancreatic cancer a year later. Noah remembered his last conversation with him, and the promise John had asked him to make. 

"Take care of Leah, for me." 

John Longfellow loved his only daughter more than anything, and trusting Noah with her safety was like giving him everything in the world that mattered. 

"I will, John." 

He had said the words and he'd meant them - even at the age of twenty. But after her father's death Leah fled to the Midwest. A friend who couldn't attend the funeral had written her and sent a ticket to visit, in hopes of comforting her. Leah stayed in touch over the years, and that was how, ten years later, she'd come to live with him. He'd promised her father he’d care for her, and if there was anyone he was willing to see on a daily basis, it was Leah. She brought light wherever she went. His perpetual state of gloom seemed slightly less dark when she was near. Leah hadn't come because of his promise, but he didn't know that. She thought she'd need it as an excuse to get in the door, but she didn’t. She had come because she'd received a message that Noah needed her - and from her first night there she'd never been more grateful for a message in a life. 

No one but Noah had lived in this house for several years until she came, and when she left the room he felt it get dimmer somehow. You're not alone anymore. You never will be again. He sighed heavily, his shaking hand becoming sturdier as it gripped the glass now full of whiskey. As he lifted it, he whispered the words too low, too late, 

"Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

Later that night, she heard it again, but this time it was different. He wasn't screaming, just crying - loudly. Making her way to his room she crept down the hall like a kid afraid of being caught. She knew he must be awake, and didn't want to upset him any further. But she couldn't stay away, either. His pain pulled at her heart and brought tears to her eyes all over again. She touched his door with her hand, and it opened. He forgot to lock it. For a moment she was sure her heart physically stopped. He just kept crying, and she couldn't take it. She entered slowly, fingers curling around the door. 

"Noah?"

No response, just tortured weeping. She eased into the room, closing the door gently behind her. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness. She saw him hunched in a ball near the end of his bed. He was still in his clothes from dinner, even his shoes. She was in a long white nightgown, and she shivered from the cold. His room was freezing, it was colder than any room in the house. A few strands of moonlight came through the open windows. She didn't want to close them for fear of upsetting him by changing his surroundings. Making her way to him, she sat carefully at the head of his bed. 

"Noah. ."

He couldn't talk to her. He couldn't do anything except cry. He just couldn't … stop. She touched his hair, running her fingers through the long strands of thick brown, so dark that in the faint moonlight it appeared almost black. He typically kept it tied back in a loose ponytail, but it cascaded loosely past his shoulders and down his back. He lifted his head for a moment, stunned that she hadn't just walked out by now. All he could see through his drunken haze and blurred vision was the white of her nightgown in the moonlight, like a soft glow. His light. The light she brought to every room she entered. It was here, and it wasn't disappearing or fading away. She wasn't leaving. She was … was she staying? He inched forward so that his head lay in her lap. He wanted to ask her to stay, but he couldn't say a word. She felt him shaking and grabbed a blanket that hung off the foot of the bed, covering him with it and taking off his shoes. She stroked his hair gently as he continued crying, until he was spent and sleeping peacefully. 

He woke-up to find her hand still in his hair, her head resting gently against the pillows. He could see much better now, and he felt his heart cave a little at the sight of her. He touched her face with tentative fingers, frowning. She was freezing! Getting up, he closed and locked the windows for the first time in - actually, he couldn't remember how long. Probably since last winter. Rain didn't bother him at all and neither did the wind. He put her in his bed instead of carrying her back to her room, and he slept on the other side. For the first time in years, his dreams didn't keep him up, and he didn't need to finish the rest of the whiskey he'd brought upstairs to get through the night. 

Noah went to bury his face in the pillow and got …… what the hell? Somehow he'd ended up completely spooning against Leah. She was still asleep, or so he thought. Part of him didn't want to move and the other half of him wanted to jump out of bed. He had to move. He had to. If she woke up . . 

"It's okay," she assured him. She was awake. He moved instinctively, as if to jerk to the other side of the bed. She turned, catching his wrist,

"Noah."

"I have to get up."

"Why?"

"I have things to do!"

"No you don't."

"YES I DO."

"We just slept. Why are you so upset?" 

Was she always this calm? No. She hadn't been the other night when he'd upset her. He wrenched away from her as if she burned him.

"GET OUT!" he barked at her.

She sat up, indignant. 

"No!"

She sat there, part of her terrified and slightly trembling. The other half of her livid and stung, as if when he discarded her hand he'd left her with a welt like a scorpion. 

"Leah, for God's sake. ."

"What."

"I .. I…"

She didn't say anything else, she was just sitting there; beautiful, disheveled and driving him nuts.

"If you won't leave I will."

"That's not what you were going to say."

"Yes it was."

"You started with I, not if."

"I stumbled, alright? What is this? Wheel of Fortune? I needed a vowel, not a word!" 

"You really want me to leave?"

He sighed heavily, running his fingers through his hair that still hung just past his shoulders. God, why hadn't he tied it back the night before?

"I need you to leave. I have to shower. I have to get ready. I have to.." 

"Brood all day?"

"Paint."

"What?"

"I have to paint."

"Then why do you have to shower first?"

"That's a good point. Habit, I suppose."

"I didn't know you painted."

"There's a lot you don't know."

She paused, but only for a second.

"I'm trying."

"Too hard."

"Really?"

"Well.. no."

"I thought I'd been fairly patient."

"Fairly?" 

"More than most."

"More than any other."

It was the greatest compliment he'd ever given her. She didn't quite know what to say. She stared at him, speechless. He knew if she didn't leave in the next minute … 

"I finally made you speechless, huh? Well there's a first."

She was still studying his face. What was she looking for, anyway?

"Do I have spots on my face or something?" 

She kicked her feet out of the tangle of sheets and stood up. He breathed a sigh of relief, which was only met with a sharp intake of breath as she made her way over to him. He stood frozen to the spot.

"Noah."

".. What."

"You're not …"

"Still drunk? No. Hung over? Yes. I didn't …" he didn't finish his sentence, deciding to change it instead.

"What?"

"I didn't drink as much last night. Now will you please -"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It's alright. It's been a while since a woman was so desperate to stay in my room."

"Don't be disgusting, it's too early."

"I'm never disgusting." 

"You're usually too drunk to make jokes." He looked away, and it made her flinch - she didn’t mean to say that. "Noah, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry I overreacted before."

"Will you show me?"

"What?"

"What you paint today." 

Shaking his head, he replied, "I've never shown anyone before."

"Why?"

"They're private."

"Okay."

She didn’t say another word, and her face didn't give anything away. He had to admit, over the years she'd become much better at hiding things - but her eyes could still give her away. He could see the spark in them, and he felt terrible. But when he did paint .. it was just too big a part of him. Even to share with her, despite everything. 

"I'll see you later," he said quietly as she left, heading for the bathroom. It was definitely a cold shower morning.


	3. Chapter 3

Hours passed and before Noah knew it, the entire day was gone. The sun that streaked through the attic window was setting when he finally stopped painting. He stared at the painting in the final rays of sunset, feeling something other than emptiness for the first time in years. He locked the attic and showered quickly, making his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He'd missed dinner altogether - by now he was usually on his third drink. Tonight, he wasn't even thinking about that. He was actually starving. 

Leah was sitting at the grand piano in the living room. No one had used it in well over a decade, much longer in fact. She had fine-tuned it earlier that morning. Noah hadn't shown up for dinner, and she didn't know where his studio was. Probably the basement. There were so many rooms in this house, and to be honest, she was afraid to explore the ones he hadn't shown her. She'd tried several, after she'd first arrived. He'd told her to make herself at home, and for the most part she genuinely was, but so many rooms were just mysteriously locked .. like little pieces of Noah - hidden away. She sighed softly, and began to play again; letting her emotions drip from her fingers and pour out onto the keys. She closed her eyes and just played.

He'd found a note from the cook and maid on the counter: "Lasagna for you and Miss Leah in the refrigerator. See you tomorrow, Lucy." She was a wonderful woman, a friend of his mother's for so many years … what was that? With his hand on the refrigerator door he turned. The piano? No. No, she wasn't. He stormed through the hall and into the living room - but when he got there, he couldn't say a word again, just like the night before. Her face was so emotive, even with her eyes closed. He saw everything. How did she do it, wear her heart on her sleeve like that? He kept everything so bottled up inside, and she just left everything so visible, in plain sight. Her hair had been pulled back in a loose bob to keep it out of her face but it was about to fall out completely. Strands of auburn cascaded around her face as she played, her fingers stroking the keys, loving at parts, pounding out pain at other intervals. With each alter of the tempo he saw her face mirror it: serenity, calm, curiosity, confusion, tension, fear, anger. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath until she was finished. As he let it out, she turned to face him,

“How long have you been there?”

“I came in the middle,” he replied.

She turned around completely, “How did your day go?”

“It was actually very productive. Lucy left a note in the kitchen, you didn’t eat?”

She shrugged, “I got distracted.”

“Are you hungry now?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, there’s lasagna.”

As they walked into the kitchen together, Leah had a great idea.

“Instead of leftovers . . . what if I make you pancakes?”

“Like that time when we woke-up at four in the morning and couldn’t sleep?”

“You do remember!”

“Sure I do. John got up and made his special homemade pancakes, insisting that anything microwaveable isn’t real food.”

She nodded, rummaging around for the right ingredients,

“Okay . . eggs, flour, milk, butter, sugar, and - oh, here it is.”

Noah was busy gathering the bowl, pan, spoon and plates,

“Here is what?”

“The secret ingredient,” she held up a little bottle of vanilla. 

“Vanilla?” 

“Hey you remember how good they were. Don’t knock it now.”

“I was just surprised.”

She went to work, mixing the eggs, flour, milk and sugar together. 

“I have to warn you,” she said, “I was never very good at the flipping part.” 

“I can do it. We’ll make them together.” 

“Okay.” 

She added a dash of vanilla, stirred and handed him the bowl. He made sure the pan was greased well and then poured a generous amount of the batter in. 

“Come here,” he said, “I‘m going to show you how to flip properly.” 

She stood next to him but he moved her in front of him. Taking her hands he put one around the handle and gave her the spatula.

“Alright,” he began to instruct her, “The important thing to remember is that you have to make sure the bottom is firm before you flip it.”

Testing it to make sure, she glanced at Noah nervously, “It’s firm.”

He laughed, “It’s just pancakes, Leah. I don’t care if you burn them. Well go on then, flip it.” 

“If I get splattered with pancake goo, you’re going to get it.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“Getting burned, or splattered.”

“Do you really hate messes that much?”

“No, but getting burned doesn’t sound fun to me.”

“Flip the pancake before IT burns.”

She did it successfully and let out a little shriek of joy.

“I always used to mess this up.” 

“It’s not hard. Now do it three more times, and we’re set.”

. . Even though she could do it now, he didn’t move away, and she didn’t ask him to. If anything, she leaned back into him a little more.

“Thank you,” she said to him as they sat down to eat. 

“For what?”

“Helping me learn.”

“Thank you,“ she looked at him curiously as he finished, “for this morning.”

“Do you remember it at all?” she asked as she passed him the syrup.

“Parts of it . .” he needed to change the subject before she asked which parts, “You play beautifully. I’d forgotten how good you were.”

“I haven’t played the piano since . . .” she stopped mid-sentence and didn’t seem to want to finish, taking several bites of pancake before continuing on, “since Dad was alive.”

“You loved it, though.”

“I loved playing for him. It made him happy.”

“And now?”

“I just . . . needed to. It’s freeing. I take all these things I can’t explain and pour my unspent emotions into the music and just release them all onto the keys. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes. That’s a lot of what my painting does for me. I put all these emotions I can’t say out loud onto the canvas.”

“Where is your studio?”

Immediately on the defensive, he asked why.

“Just so I know where you are, in case days like today happen again. I could tell you dinner’s ready. I didn’t know where to go looking for you.”

“It’s in one of the locked rooms.”

“There are so many of those.” 

“Don’t start, Leah.”

“How am I starting? I just said …”

He put his silverware down, picked up his plate and rose from the table.

“Yes, there are a lot of locked rooms, and there are reasons for every single one.”

“Noah --”

“You don’t know --”

“But I want to know!”

“NO YOU DON’T!” he slammed his dish back down so hard, it broke. 

She was stunned but tried anyway, “Noah, please. Can’t you -”

“I can’t …. talk about this now. And as beautiful as your playing is, I would have appreciated it if you asked first.”

She couldn’t very well feel like a prisoner in a place she had willingly walked into, could she? 

“Noah, you said to make myself at home.”

“Just don’t touch the piano.”

“And don’t ask about the locked rooms. Or try to get you to talk to me? Just what would you like me to do, Noah?”

“Leave me alone, that’s all I want. Just to be left alone. That’s how it was before you got here, that’s how I want it to stay. It’s easier that way.”

Even though her legs felt like jelly, she stood up straight and strong, “Just because you’re existing, doesn’t mean you’re living. You aren’t the one who died, Noah - stop acting like it.” 

He couldn’t take it anymore. He left the room. She heard the familiar slam of the door and let herself sink back into her chair as the tears spilled down her face.


	4. Chapter 4

The familiar warm liquid coursed down his throat like water. What did she know? A few months of living in this house did not make her an expert on his life. He closed his eyes, and instead of fighting it, let the visions come. 

His mother, Meghan, had been a beautiful woman: keen and sharp, yet the most gentle and loving person he’d ever known. She had long blonde hair, and he had gotten his hazel eyes from her. It never struck Noah until much later that he didn’t resemble his father - a man with sandy blonde hair and gray eyes, perhaps because he spent most of his life focusing on what he could do to please them through his actions. He’d never seen two greater polar opposites then his parents. His mother had shown him what it meant to love and feel compassion. His father drove him night and day to be perfect. Less than perfect wasn’t worth the consequences that came after.

He placed a hand over his eyes even though they were still closed and took another deep drink. He could almost hear his sister playing the piano. His father had liked Chopin, preferably the Nocturnes. When he was home that was all Kaitlyn, his older sister by one year, had played - all she could play, without incurring her father’s wrath. He could still hear every note of Op. 9 No. 1 in B minor, over and over and over again. The song had become this instant transport for him that sent him into a black hole he’d been trying to find a way out of since he was a child. 

Always a straight-A student, he did everything he could from a young age to make his father proud of him - but nothing seemed to work. He made the varsity basketball team in the tenth grade, but that had no impact either. Every game the team lost was somehow Noah’s fault: he didn’t play hard enough, he didn’t make enough baskets, whatever the excuse - his father was sure to find one. Pouring another drink, he remembered the day he’d gotten benched. His father had come home furious, ranting and raving, demanding to know where he was. Noah had been in the attic, painting. His father never went up there. It was the one place he could be alone . . . but not that day. He heard his father coming up the stairs and rushed to hide his paints and canvas, but it was too late. 

“What the hell is this? You get benched today, and now you’re painting?”

The paints splattered across the floor, and before Noah could say a word his father had back-slapped him into the wall. 

“I didn’t raise you to act like a sissy.”

He tried to explain, but it was useless. The blows kept coming. He was so used to it by now that he just stood for as long as he could, until his knees gave out.

“GET UP! GET UP YOU SPINELESS WORM!”

Even now, his stomach retracted at the memory of his father’s boots digging in, kicking him over and over until the skin looked like a badly beaten eggplant. Kaitlyn had come home from dance practice early that day, and rushed to her brother’s defense.

“Dad, stop! STOP!”

But she was no match for him. He threw her across the room and she toppled over the table that held his watercolors. All the colors seemed to mix together to a dark gray as Noah stumbled to his feet.

“Leave her alone!”

He’d tackled his father to the ground as he tried desperately to gain back some leverage, but he was too weak. His father slammed him into the floor and split his lip. Noah lay motionless on the ground. The last thing he remembered was Kaitlyn crying - but she seemed so far away. Kaitlyn,. God, how he missed her . . . more than anyone else, even his mother. If only he’d known. All those years it had seemed like he was his father’s personal punching bag. There was something about him that just infuriated his father, and it wasn’t until later that he’d learned the truth: he wasn’t his father’s son - that was the source of his fury. Every time his father looked at him, all he saw was his mother’s infidelity. But married to a man like Chase Riley, how could anyone expect her to not have sought love elsewhere? If Chase showed any affection at all, it was to Kaitlyn - but none of them knew just how much, until it was too late. Vivacious and ambitious, Kaitlyn filled her days with charity work, cheerleading and dance classes. She had been one of the most popular girls in school - Noah had always been a loaner, only part of a team when it came to basketball. People liked him well enough, for what they knew of him, anyway. He was so quiet and reserved, people never felt like they scratched anywhere below the surface. The only people he seemed remotely close to were his younger brother, Trey, and older sister, Kaitlyn. 

In high school, he’d always thought of her as the strong one, the one who could handle anything life threw at her. He was the screw-up, the scapegoat, the black sheep. She and his mother loved and accepted him, but he knew he wasn’t part of the family. Not really, not like she was. His father reminded him of it every day. He liked to hit areas clothing easily concealed so as to avoid suspicion. He rarely went for the face. If only Noah had known all that time, Kaitlyn was suffering so much worse . . . he would’ve done something, anything, to protect her. He blamed himself, of course. Everything was his fault. That was drilled into his brain ever since he could remember. If he’d only seen the signs - why hadn’t he seen them when it mattered? The way Chase always bought Kaitlyn extravagant presents, but hardly went out of his way for his mother. The way he doted on her, fawned over her. He’d always thought she was simply the favorite because she was the ‘real child’ of both parents. He never thought Chase questioned her genes as well. 

Chase died of congestive heart failure when Noah was nineteen, and Kaitlyn was twenty. The same year he injured his knee and lost his dream of a life in the NBA. That was when everything began to spiral out of control. Noah had thought since he was finally free of his father, his life could finally begin - but looking back on it now, he noticed just how detached Kaitlyn became over the following year. Back then he’d assumed she was fine. She was busy as ever: on the cheerleading squad at Boston State, straight-A’s, head of the charity league and social chair of all the college’s student events. She’d never had a boyfriend - but with a father like their’s and a schedule like her’s how could she possibly have kept one anyway? Kaitlyn and Leah hadn’t been close, but they talked occasionally - from what he remembered Kaitlyn saying, it was mostly about him. He’d only known Leah a year when his father died, but without the support of her and her father, he probably would have ended up the way he was now much too soon. Leah was always so caring, so open. He remembered one of his last conversations with his sister . . . it had been about Leah.

“What is it about this girl?” Kaitlyn had asked.

“What do you mean?”

He remembered with vivid clarity the perception of her icy stare, “Your whole life you shun the world and suddenly this girl walks in and you’re like an open book.”

 

“I am not. Don’t get so defensive.”

“I have every right to be defensive! I’ve always been your confidant. It’s been us against the world.”

“It still is that way.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like you’re replacing me.”

“No one could ever replace you. Leah is . . . different.”

“Different how?” Always so proud, so strong. She stood there with her hands on her hips and fire in her green eyes. When she got mad, she got mad.

“This place isn’t my home - but you, Katie, you’re my home. You are my safety, and my shelter. You’re the one person in the world I can always count on to be here.”

“So then what is she?”

“She’s . . .” He wanted to say his heart, but he knew the reaction that would get, and he didn’t want to upset her anymore so he started again, “She helps me in ways you can’t. There are certain roles a sister just can’t . . fill. She makes me want to be a better person, but at the same time, when I’m with her - I like who I am. I like who she sees, when she looks at me . . and the thing that’s the most amazing, is I know she sees me for who I am, and what I could be. Her expectations aren’t unrealistic and she doesn’t see things that aren’t there. She just sees me. She sees me the way I wish I saw myself.”  
“You're in love with her."

"I know."

"Does she?"

"I'm not sure."

"You should tell her. One of us should be happy. I want you to be happy, little brother."

"What do you mean one of us? Why not both?"

She'd hugged him then, long and tight.  
"You've been miserable for so long. I just need to know that you'll find a way to be happy. Promise me that."

"I promise . ."

He'd wanted to ask her what this was all about, but she didn't give him time. She was running late for another one of her appointments. She kissed his cheek, told him she loved him, and bid him goodbye. That was the last time he'd ever see her alive.

He remembered it all so clearly, it played out like a movie in his mind. Later that night he'd gone to Leah to talk to her, tell her how he felt. Just as he was walking up her driveway she'd come careening out her front door, racing for her car. She was fumbling with the keys so badly she dropped them. He called out, rushing over to her - but it was only when he got up close that he saw she was crying. 

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes were large blue pools of sadness, streaming saltwater. 

"We have to find Kaitlyn. We have to find her now! Where is she?"

"At the house.."

"We have to go, we have to go --"

She was about to get in her car when he grabbed her arm.

"Tell me what's going on right now!"

"She called me. She said - she said …"

He gripped her shoulders - she was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"What!"

"That she knew you'd be in good hands, and she could leave you comforted by the fact that --"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, LEAVE ME? LEAVE ME FOR WHERE?"

"I think she took something, Noah. She sounded so funny …"

"Stay here."

"Noah -"

"STAY HERE!"

He had turned and taken off running. He didn't even remember the drive home. It took him half an hour to get back from Leah's and when he did the house was dark. She had to be home, she just had to. He didn't even turn the car off, just raced to get inside; even leaving the front door ajar as he took the stairs two at a time. Screaming her name got him no answer, so he just went straight for her room. Turning on the light - he found her there, sprawled out on her floor with an empty prescription of his mother's sleeping pills on one side and an equally empty bottle of vodka on the other. Her thick blonde strands were fanned around her in a perfect halo of golden light. She looked like she was sleeping. He fell down beside her, cradling her in his arms and screaming for her to wake-up . . . he remembered how light she had felt, after all the times of him complaining she was too heavy for piggy-back rides. She was light as a feather, because her spirit had flown away.

He could hardly recall the police coming, but he did remember the letter they handed him, that she'd left behind with his name on it. He hadn't been able to read it right away, so he put it in his pocket. His mother returned from her getaway weekend with friends and the rest of it was a blur of funeral arrangements and meaningless "I'm sorry's" that never registered with him. The night after the funeral he'd finally brought himself to open her letter. He hadn't even told his mother he had it. He figured it Kaitlyn had wanted her to know, she would have left his mother's name on the envelope as well.

Every word of that letter was etched inside his mind. Chase had been raping her for years, and even though he was dead and gone she still felt trapped by him every single day. This was the only escape she knew, or at least the only one she had seen at the time - and now it was too late to give her any other options. She'd asked him again, to be happy, and to take care of himself the way he always should have. She wanted him to live life for the both of them, and she hoped that if he felt he was doing it for her it would give him some sense of purpose, even if it was for someone else and not himself.

A week later, he found their younger brother, Trey, in his room. He had shot himself in the head. His little brother left him another morbid note, asking Noah to live for both of them, but without Kaitlyn he just couldn’t go on. His mother, now married to her third husband, a count who lived off the coast of Mykonos, had fled the country after her youngest son’s death. She begged Noah to come with her, but for the same reasons she so desperately wanted to leave, he couldn’t bring himself to. All of his memories of them were here. Their things were here. He felt close to them, and in some sense, it comforted him. Not enough, obviously, but he would take what he could get. He would take whatever remained. 

Finishing the whiskey that was left in the glass, he put it down and rested his head in his hands. Oh, poor Kaitlyn. Poor Trey. God - if only he had known. If only they had said something . . if only he hadn't been so blind to it all.


	5. Chapter 5

Leah had come to apologize. She was standing outside his door just as he started to cry. She tried to open the door, but it was locked again.

"Please go away," he begged her. 

She placed both hands on the door, fighting to control her own tears. She had been crying downstairs in the dining room for over two hours. She couldn't stand this anymore. 

"Please open the door, Noah. Please." 

"No."

"Noah -"

"I said no."

She began to bang on the door with her fists. At least this time she knew he could hear her.

"Open this door, Noah. Open it!"

"NO!"

"How is it easier for you to be tortured and alone then it is to be together and happy?"

"I don't remember what that feels like, anymore. I don't know if I ever did." 

"You could if you tried!"

"Maybe I don't want to try."

"I DON'T BELIEVE YOU. I DON'T BELIEVE YOU FOR ONE GOD DAMNED MINUTE, NOAH RILEY! DO YOU HEAR ME? OPEN THIS DOOR!"

She kicked it now, for good measure. He stood up, reluctantly resting a hand against the door frame.

"Can I ask you something?"

She was breathing hard now, but she took a deep breath and said,

"Anything you want."

"Why haven't you given up on me by now? Everyone else has." 

"Everyone else is gone, Noah. They didn't give up on you - they gave up on themselves. They gave up on life. It had nothing to do with you . . any of it. You're blaming the wrong person." 

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do."

"How can you be so sure?"

"You are the only man in my life, other than my father - who I've ever been sure of."

The words hit him so hard he had to lean against the door with his full body for support. 

"Why? Why me?"

"Why not you."

"Because I'm not worth anything."

"You're worth everything to me."

"Well that isn't real much."

"Maybe not to you, but it means a lot to me."

"I still don't know why." 

"If you open the door - I'll tell you."

He opened the door a crack. 

"More. I need to see your face."

He opened it the rest of the way, his heartbroken hazel eyes finding her bottomless blue ones - as calm as the ocean on a clear day. She continued, 

"Because I believe in all the things you've always refused to see. Your talent and your strength, your sense of honor and your heart, bigger than the moon. You have so much potential, Noah. Your mother saw it, my father saw it, I see it. The only person who doesn't see it is you."

"So how am I supposed to find it?"

"That's why you have me."

His light in the eternal darkness, she never seemed to falter or fade, only glow stronger. Reaching out his arms, he enveloped her in a long hug. 

"I don't believe in me yet, but I believe in you. So I guess all that stuff is somewhere .."

"It's there, Noah. I promise."

"Will you stay with me again tonight? Please?"

He couldn't believe he'd actually said the words. She pulled back a little, taking his face in her hands and kissing his forehead tenderly. It wasn't a motherly gesture - she was just too afraid to kiss him anywhere else.

"Of course. I'm going to get changed, okay? I'll be right back."

He didn't want to let go of her. She felt like this anchor that was holding him in a safe harbor, and if he let go he'd be adrift again in an endless ocean of pain and loneliness - but he knew she'd be back, so he let his arms drop and stepped away. 

"Okay."

She went to her room and changed quickly into the same type of nightgown as the night before, but this one was lavender, not white. She reached for the phone by her bedside table, dialing an all too familiar number as she shook her hair free from the loose bun she'd placed it in earlier. 

"Hello?" Leah couldn't help but smile, just hearing her best friend's voice on the line.

"Elena, I need your help." 

"How is it going over there, anyway? I haven't heard from you in a while and I was getting worried."

"I think we're making progress - but having more than just me might speed things up a little. Besides, you're tougher than I am." 

"It's easier to be tough when you aren't in love with the person."

Leah just sighed, not saying anything.

"Oh please, if I'm going to deal with the two of you practically making me sick I'm at least speaking the truth instead of dancing around it like you guys." 

"Does that mean you're coming?"

"In so many words, yes."

"Thank you."

"I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, sweets." 

She hung up the phone with a mixture of relief and anticipation, heading back to Noah's room. He was already in bed when she got there. Crawling in, she turned on her right side, facing the closed door. He wrapped lean arms around her and rested his head in the crook of her shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat - slow and steady, between her shoulder blades. She closed her eyes, placing her hands over his and applying the slightest pressure as she entwined their fingers. He felt his heart pick-up speed and wondered if she could tell as he breathed in the scent of the cinnamon essential oil she always used. He thought back to the night he'd planned to tell her, all those years ago - and now here she was . . . after so much had gone wrong in his life, it was difficult for him to accept things going right, no matter how obvious they seemed. She felt him shift beside her, his even breathing stopped and caught in his throat.

"Noah? Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. She felt something wet hit her shoulder, and turning, saw that he was crying. Nothing like before, but still. Curling into him, she wiped his eyes with gentle fingertips. She touched his cheek with her one hand, and waited. She knew he'd talk to her, when he was ready. He closed his eyes at her touch, so soothing, so soft. How did she always know what he needed? When to wait and when to speak, when to push and when to back away. She was this indefinable mixture of vulnerability and toughness that shattered his walls and left them in crumbled ruins - all with the touch of her hands. He wanted to tell her, he needed to tell her . . it had been too long.

"Do you remember the night .. the night Kaitlyn called you?"

He saw her swallow, nodding slightly.

"Did you ever wonder why I was at your house that night?"

"All the time."

Lifting a hand he touched her cheek, much the same way she had his . . except he trailed his thumb down her jaw and across her mouth. Her pulse was rapidly picking up speed with every movement of his fingers. All these years, all this time. It was a ridiculously long time to love someone, and back then they had both been so young. Of course she'd had other relationships over the years, so had he - but nothing ever felt quite like this. Everything was new again, it was like experiencing everything for the first time. His hands wandered down, brushing her arms, running fingers against the fabric of her nightgown. She was trembling, he could feel her. It was so subtle though you couldn't see it. 

"Are you okay?" 

He wanted to make sure he wasn't doing anything she didn't want him to, but there was no trace of fear or discomfort in her expression. She leaned up on one elbow, hair cascading around her in a cloud of dark auburn. 

"I've always been afraid to ask you. I thought it wasn't appropriate, and when you never mentioned it I didn't know what to think. Maybe you were just coming by to visit . . but you always used to call first -"

He ran his hands back up her arms, cupping one around her neck and pulling her down to meet him. The kiss was timid and tender, so careful. He wasn't sure who was more fragile, him or her. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers - finally letting out the words he'd held in for nine long years: 

"I came to tell you -"

She stopped him,

". . I know. Me too.”

“There you go again, always stealing my thunder.”

He rested his forehead against hers as they laughed together for a few minutes.


End file.
